


The Measure of a Man

by imagymnasia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, M/M, i guess, just a couple of guys and their swords, minor Death Knight spoilers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21799360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagymnasia/pseuds/imagymnasia
Summary: Byleth tries to worm his way into Jeritza's good graces, but the weapons instructor is a hard man to pin down- literally.
Relationships: Jeritza von Hrym & My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34
Collections: FE3H Holiday Gift Exchange





	The Measure of a Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmptyOliveJar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmptyOliveJar/gifts).



Byleth struck, the force of his blow enough to knock Felix back. His student’s feet slid across the dirt floor, kicking up only a modicum of dust from the well-packed earth. That was, hopefully, what caused the gritty noise, and not Felix’s teeth grinding in frustration. They had been at this for the better part of an hour and the heir to House Fraldarius had yet to land a solid hit on him. It was making the boy angry, reckless, and Byleth knew he was reaching his limit.

Felix growled when Byleth lowered his sword. “What are you doing?”

“We’re done here.”

“We are _not_ finished,” Felix snarled.

“You’re getting sloppy. Not thinking things through. And you’re tired,” Byleth added, noting the way Felix’s arms trembled as he held his sword at the ready. “Get some rest. We can try again tomorrow.”

Felix opened his mouth to protest, but a smooth voice floated between them from the columns, sounding amused.

“Yeah, Felix, listen to the professor,” and Sylvain sat up from his very comfortable slouch and grinned. “Take a break. Let’s go eat!”

“This from the idiot who never trains,” Felix shot back, tone as sharp as any blade. “You could at least try.”

“Nah, that sounds like work. Besides, you train enough for the both of us.”

“That’s not how it—” Felix cut off with a scowl. “You sound like that Goneril princess, always making excuses and flirting to get out of things.”

Sylvain sat a little straighter, laughter in his eyes. “Oh?” He winked. “And is it working?”

Byleth stepped between them, neatly deflecting Felix’s blow before he could skewer the redhead on his practice sword. Felix was still shouting threats while Sylvain scurried behind one of the pillars, hands raised in surrender, when another voice (deep, unaffected, cadence slow) cut through the din.

“Am I… interrupting?”

Byleth’s stomach turned over at the sound, and three sets of eyes turned to the door where Jeritza von Hrym stood. He looked as unimpressed as usual: expression carefully neutral, eyes giving away nothing behind the mask. Byleth had been here for over a month now, and he had never seen the man without it.

“Not interrupting,” said the professor. “They were just leaving.” Felix squawked in protest, but Byleth’s eyes remained on Jeritza. “Here to train?”

“What else would I be here for?”

 _‘To see me’_ very nearly popped from his mouth before he stopped it. The man had never shown an interest in _anyone_ since Byleth had come to the monastery; Byleth’s few attempts at speaking with him had ended with curt dismissal. So why would Jeritza care about Byleth’s presence at all? And why did Byleth care if he cared? Stupid answer from a stupid, sleepy brain.

So, he shrugged instead. “Come to watch, maybe assess? Felix is your student, too.” Technically.

Jeritza hummed thoughtfully. Felix must have seen an opening, because he jumped in almost immediately.

“Let me show you what I can do,” he said, voice as close to pleading as Byleth had ever heard it. Behind him, Byleth heard Sylvain muttering in defeat.

Some part of him pitied Sylvain. It was nearly lunchtime, and no doubt he was hungry. But Byleth knew he wouldn’t leave Felix alone—half because he was a social vampire who fed on the company of others and half because if _he_ didn’t make sure Felix wasn’t skipping meals, no one else would. Byleth hadn’t known Sylvain long, but it was long enough to gauge the sort of person Sylvain was—to know that he was more than just the goofy façade he showed the world.

Not all masks were physical.

There was one he had yet to figure out, though, and the man wearing it was standing right in front of him.

“Show me,” said Jeritza, and Byleth swallowed. He wasn’t sure if the command was directed at himself or Felix, but it made him shudder all the same. Gods, what was it about that voice…?

Still, Byleth was reluctant to comply. Felix was going to burn himself out, and Byleth, too, was tired. But he also knew the boy wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted, so he picked up his practice sword and sighed. Felix, looking smug and just this side of excitable, flashed him a smirk as they squared off—one that, Byleth realized, he would take great pleasure in wiping from his face.

Levelling the blunt wooden blade at Felix’s chest, Byleth nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Felix launched himself at Byleth, sword already drawn back in preparation for a large sweeping blow. Byleth dodged it easily, knocking Felix’s blade aside and sidestepping around him, already poised for a strike of his own. Felix met it with a grin, the thrill of a fight plain on his face.

They fell into a rhythm, one Byleth knew well enough that he hardly had to think. Felix was predictable in his unpredictability, and he was fatigued; Byleth could sense it in the slight hitch of his movements, the slower-than-average reactions. He was still doing well, all things considered, because he was Felix Hugo Fraldarius, probably the best swordsman the academy had seen since his father had graced these halls. Not that Felix would appreciate the comparison.

He also didn’t know when to quit. The boy was flagging. Byleth should end it soon, before Felix did something stupid and got himself hurt.

Byleth glanced at Jeritza, wondering what he thought of their performance, and found only one man where there had been two. Sylvain was staring at them with obvious alarm; a moment later, Byleth heard his shout of warning.

“Professor, look out!”

Instinct took over, and Byleth brought his sword up to block the oncoming blow before he ever saw his opponent. It wasn’t unlike Felix to try to win at all costs; Byleth had let himself become distracted, and he could hardly blame Felix for taking advantage.

But the strike didn’t _feel_ like Felix. It was heavier, the balance off, and Byleth looked up in surprise. The eyes staring back at him were blue, not amber, sharp and stormy as dawn during the Verdant Rain Moon, rimmed by red and white plaster.

Jeritza shoved him back, and for a brief moment Byleth could see Felix behind him, staring up from the ground in surprise as Sylvain rushed to his side. It was the only glance he was allowed before Jeritza lunged, eyes flashing with bloodlust.

The crack of wood striking wood resounded even in the open-air arena. Byleth grunted as he tried (and failed) to hold ground. Jeritza hit hard and fast, forced him back with each strike, and Byleth—tired from the morning’s training, outclassed in height and weight, and never having fought the man before—was at a real disadvantage.

 _You have overcome such odds before_ , a reminder from the girl in his head. _Concentrate!_

Easy for her to say, with her god-like powers and incorporeal body. He was the one doing all the work: whose muscles already ached, who would hurt _worse_ if he lost, who felt the air ripped from his lungs every time he glanced into those dagger-blue eyes—

Byleth ducked under Jeritza’s swing just in time, the blade rustling through his hair as he rolled beneath it. He came up on the masked man’s other side, his own blade sweeping for Jeritza’s ankles. The other man hopped over it, clearly expecting the strike, and Byleth was forced to roll again to avoid Jeritza’s downswing. When he staggered to his feet, his opponent was already there, pushing and pushing until Byleth’s back hit something solid. A column, he realized, just a fraction too late; Jeritza’s blade was at his throat, the rounded edge of the wooden sword digging into his flesh with too much force.

Jeritza’s chest was heaving, his long blonde hair in artful tangles about his face, hands white-knuckled and trembling on the hilt of his sword. Byleth met his eyes and gasped. The man looked unhinged— _feral_.

Byleth had seen that look in other men’s eyes, but never outside of actual battle and never this close. He should be afraid—Jeritza pressed harder against his windpipe and Byleth was starting to choke in earnest—but the wildness in his eyes was entrancing, _captivating_ , not frightening.

He had heard Jeritza was a demon on the field, a loner who took to no one and spoke more eloquently with his blade than his words. Byleth Eisner—the enigmatic mercenary, son of the Bladebreaker, professor and protector of the Black Eagle House—could relate. Talking with others could be exhausting, especially with those at the monastery. There was just too much to remember, too many expectations, too many _rules_. What did it matter who was related to whom, or who their fathers were and what position they held? Nobility, crests, status—they were unnecessary complications, and Byleth couldn’t be bothered to keep it all straight. None of it meant anything to a mercenary, and it certainly meant nothing on the battlefield. It didn’t matter whose heir you were when there was a sword aimed at your throat. As strange and difficult as his new life had become, there was a comfort in Jeritza’s silent bloodlust. Battle was something he knew, something he welcomed without fear.

He needed more.

“If you wanted a turn, you could have just asked,” he gasped, his lips turning slightly upwards into what he had recently learned was a smirk.

That seemed to catch Jeritza’s attention, for his eyes went wide behind the mask and Jeritza faltered. He seemed at war with himself as the pressure against Byleth’s throat lessened slowly, reluctantly, and then all at once. Byleth could not help the great gasps as he sucked sweet air into his aching lungs, or the twinge of relief as Jeritza allowed it.

 _Allowed?_ the girl in his head mocked. Byleth shoved aside both her and her commentary. Laughter followed, but she did not speak again.

That was when he realized Jeritza was still staring at him.

Byleth met his eyes with something like shyness and was disappointed to find that the wildness had abated. Now the man seemed unsure, or perhaps unnerved—Byleth could hardly tell the expressions apart when he _hadn’t_ been choked within an inch of his life.

He stared back, analytical and appraising even as he tried to catch his breath. Jeritza seemed… _torn in two_ was probably the best way to describe it. Hungry, and confused, and maybe afraid—as if he couldn’t decide which emotion to wear.

Byleth could relate to that, too.

“You are weak.”

Byleth blinked. “What?”

“You are not at your full strength,” said Jeritza. Byleth bristled at the flatness of his tone, but the other man continued. “You are still coming into your power, but you are not there yet. Come to me again when you do.”

Then Jeritza was walking away, already smoothing his hair back into pace. Despite his irritation, Byleth wondered what it felt like—silky and straight, so different from his own.

“Wait!”

Jeritza paused at the weapons rack, staring blankly back. Byleth swallowed. He couldn’t let him leave, not after whatever all _that_ had been.

“How about a wager?”

“A wager?” asked Jeritza, slowly, as if weighing the words on his tongue. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to keep sparring with you,” Byleth answered. “You’re the only one at my level—” Felix, whom Byleth had forgotten was even there, made an indignant noise— “and—and it would be nice to get to know you better.”

Jeritza’s eyes widened for a moment before narrowing in distain. “I am not here to make friends,” he said.

“If I win,” said Byleth, not backing down, “you have to tell me one thing about yourself. If you win, I’ll do the same.”

“Not interested,” Jeritza drawled. Byleth frowned. What could he offer that would entice the man?

“I’ll teach you a new technique—”

“I beat you, remember?”

“But I—”

“If you win,” Sylvain cut in, “the professor here will give you his desserts for a week!”

“I’ll _what?_ ” Byleth whirled on Sylvain.

“Hm. Done.”

“ _WHAT._ ”

Sylvain, who looked relieved that his little gambit had worked, flashed Byleth a winning smile complete with a thumbs-up and a wink. Fine—Byleth wouldn’t kill him. Yet.

“Felix, Sylvain, get to the dining hall already,” Byleth sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You aren’t even my students.”

“Hey, I’m only here on my free day because Felix is,” laughed the redhead, “and he’s only here because you’re so good with your _sword_ —ow!”

“Knock it off, Sylvain,” Felix grumbled. “We’re done here.” He stalked to the exit, trusting the other boy to follow. If on the way out he slammed his training sword into the rack a little more forcefully than was necessary, Byleth pretended not to notice. Instead he turned to Jeritza, one eyebrow raised.

“So, you like sweets.”

Jeritza snorted, placing his sword on the rack and turning to face the other teacher. “Meet me here tomorrow,” he said, completely ignoring Byleth’s not-question. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Then he was gone, leaving Byleth alone with the sound of his voice reverberating in his skull and the image of Jeritza’s rare, soft smile.

* * *

Jeritza proved a more difficult opponent than Byleth had anticipated. Maybe the man truly didn’t want to share about his life; maybe he just really loved sweets. Either way, he seemed as determined to keep his secrets as Byleth was to uncover them.

It wasn’t that Jeritza was unbeatable. Byleth was more than capable of winning, if he put his mind to it. He’d even gotten close on more than one occasion. No, Byleth had the skill. He just couldn’t _concentrate_ when he was around the man.

It was infuriating, to say the least, knowing that victory was within his grasp if he just reached out his hand (or sword) to take it. He had tried, but every time he would catch a glimpse of darkened eyes, hungry behind the mask, or think about the way Jeritza was so tall and strong and lithe, he would choke. Byleth Eisner, the Ashen Demon, would choke, all because he was too busy indulging a fantasy to fight properly. It was _ridiculous._

Sothis—the girl in his head now had a name—found it delightful. “ _He’s not bad to look at, although I do not know what passes for human beauty these days,_ ” she had told him once. “ _But his personality… hm. It lacks something.”_

Byleth indulged her. “ _What?”_

_“A personality.”_

_“You’re so rude,”_ Byleth thought back, sullen. Jeritza wasn’t dull, he was reserved. He had expressions and emotions, like anyone else. They were just… subtle. Hidden, unless you were looking for them.

 _“One would think you would have discovered them,”_ laughed Sothis _, “from all the looking you do.”_ And if Byleth went red around the ears, at least no one was around to see.

The Blue Sea Moon changed things.

Between the mission to Gaspard and the rumors of an assassination plot, neither Byleth nor Jeritza had time for their little contest. Byleth missed it, but his students needed him. _Rhea_ needed him. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the Archbishop, but he couldn’t let her die or let harm come to the place he had started to call home. He was sure the letter was a ruse, a distraction to draw attention from the enemy’s true intent, and both Edelgard and his father agreed. When the attack happened in the Holy Mausoleum, the Black Eagles were waiting.

The Death Knight was a surprise.

The man was imposing, killing intent rolling off him like a dark mist. Edelgard gasped at the sight of him, taking Byleth’s arm and dragging her professor down to whisper in his ear.

“That knight looks dangerous,” she said, lips pursed in displeasure. “I hate to say it, but we cannot fight him—not as we are.”

“Perhaps not,” he answered. He turned to the rest of the Black Eagles. “Listen up! We have to stop them from opening the casket. Give it everything you’ve got and leave the Death Knight alone.” They nodded as a collective, but Byleth had already turned back to the dark knight and his steed.

“I’ll deal with this one myself.”

Byleth stared him down as his students spread out to face the enemy, giving the cavalier a wide berth. The thrill of battle thrummed in Byleth’s veins. It had been a long time since he had fought someone with true skill. _Someone like Jeritza_ , Sothis supplied, but Byleth wasn’t listening. He was focused, hands gripping his weapon in anticipation as he zeroed in on his opponent.

“Who are you?”

“I am the Death Knight,” answered the man. “It matters not—”

“What is your aim here?” Byleth growled. “I’ll not have you harm my students, nor continue to defile this holy place.” It should scare him how much those sounded like Rhea’s words and not his own. Then he paused, because something was nagging him. Something seemed… off about this man.

Byleth lowered his guard—just a little.

“Have we met before?”

Glowing red eyes flicked to the blade in Byleth’s hand. “Stay your sword, and I will stay mine. I have no interest in fighting weaklings.”

Byleth felt his hackles rise at the clear dismissal, but as he adjusted his grip on his sword and prepared to lunge, Caspar cried out from the other side of the stairs. Byleth looked up and his heart leapt into his throat. Caspar was surrounded by dark mages; the brawler’s left arm hung useless at his side, and he stood his ground even while Linhardt scrambled with bloodied fingers to heal him.

Byleth cursed, his eyes going to the Death Knight once again.

“Go,” he said, and Byleth cursed again. “Your students need you.”

“This isn’t over,” he snapped, already dashing past him and up the stairs.

The reply was so soft he might have imagined it. “No, it isn’t.”

The rest of the fighting was a blur of blood and adrenaline. Byleth and the Eagles rushed to defend the mausoleum. Even scattered, Byleth was proud that their team held its own. At some point—any sense of time was lost in the chaos-- reinforcements bounded down the stairs, ready to give their comrades aide, but Petra and Hubert made short work of them.

And through it all, the Death Knight merely watched them, as if sizing them up with pointed indifference.

With Caspar out of harm’s way and Edelgard leading the rest of the Eagles, Byleth charged toward the casket. Too late, the casket was open—

The Sword of the Creator glowed in Byleth’s hands, something deep inside him humming in response; it felt strange, but also like the sword had chosen him—but that he would figure out later, for the head mage was readying another attack. Byleth struck him down, the glowing weapon slicing through flesh and bone as if it was empty air.

By the time Catherine and her regiment came bounding down the stairs, the Death Knight was gone.

* * *

Jeritza was avoiding him. The last time they had spoken had been brief, a chance meeting by the fishing dock three days after the Goddess’s Rite of Rebirth. It had taken every ounce of his control not to run to him like some sort of lovestruck fool ( _“Except that’s what you are,”_ Sothis laughed, _“bumbling, besotted Byleth—”_ ). Jeritza had taken one look at him, at the Sword he now carried, and his eyes had gone dark; then, before Byleth could say a word, he had stalked away.

“The game is over,” he had said. “I’ll play it no more.”

Byleth had barely seen him since then, and he no longer haunted the training grounds like a solemn specter. Already a rarity in the dining hall, Jeritza was now taking all his meals in his rooms (if he was eating at all). Lately, Byleth had taken to writing him letters—really, little more than notes hastily scribbled between lectures—and slipping them under the door of his quarters in the knight’s wing. He’d yet to receive a single reply.

Rumors of the Death Knight still floated around the monastery. Seteth remained skeptical of the man’s existence even with the testimony of their entire house, but he put extra Knights on the evening patrols in town and increased the vigilance of the watch. Byleth was tempted to go into the village himself, long after the sun had set yet before the moon had risen, just to see if he could ferret the man out. Even if he got himself killed, it would be worth it to work out some of his frustrations on the enemy.

Except that it wouldn’t, and he knew it. Responsibility kept him at the monastery, especially with the news about Conand Tower and the Lance of Ruin.

He should have been preparing for that mission right now, actually, except that Byleth found himself pacing the courtyard in irritation. He just couldn’t understand why the man was ignoring him when he so clearly wanted—

A glimpse of golden hair in the sunlight, and Byleth jerked to attention. There he was, crossing the garden toward the dining hall. Byleth was moving before he thought about it.

“Jeritza!” The man didn’t look up, nor did he stop moving. “Jeritza, wait!”

“Go _away._ ” This time he did stop, but Jeritza did not turn to face him. Instead he glared at the ground just ahead. Fine, Byleth would take what he could get.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

If Jeritza was the sort of man who rolled his eyes, he would have. “I told you, I’m not here to make friends. Stay away from me.”

“Why?” A feeling very much like anger was surging inside Byleth now. He planted himself directly in Jeritza’s path, demanding his attention; Jeritza only stared over his head, blue-grey eyes unfocused. “Did I do something? Are you angry with me?”

“I… am not. Why would I—”

“I don’t _know!_ ” Byleth didn’t like this feeling; it burned his throat and his eyes, made him want to lash out, to hurt in the same way he was hurt. He was losing control. “I don’t know,” he said, forcing himself to be calm. “You won’t tell me anything, you won’t tell anyone anything—I barely even know who you are, yet I still—”

Oh Goddess. He _cared_. He cared about the stupid man, with his stupid mask and his stupid eyes and his stupid way of speaking without words. Byleth felt known by him in a way that—as much as he loved his students, his colleagues, his _father—_ none of them could understand.

He didn’t even know what his _face_ looked like.

“I, um…” Byleth looked up, gasping when he found Jeritza staring back at him.

“You should stay away from me,” he said softly. “I have… always been drawn to you.” Byleth held his breath, eyes wide. “You are not like the others. There is a power within you that… calls to me. Makes me want—” Jeritza paused.

“…Want what?”

Suddenly Byleth was against the wall, Jeritza’s hands pressing his shoulders into the stone. A few of the students still in the courtyard cried out in alarm and scattered, but Byleth heard rather than saw the commotion as Jeritza filled his vision. The dark, hungry look was back as he leaned in, pinning the smaller man to the wall.

“I want to _destroy you_ ,” he growled, his whole body shuddering as he said the words—as if imagining the events in his head as his speech brought them to life. “If you continue to bait me, I will—”

Byleth kissed him.

For a moment he saw sparks against the backdrop of his eyelids; then he was seeing stars of a different kind as Jeritza shoved him away and his head collided painfully with the stone wall.

The swordsman was shaking, anger forgotten, staring at Byleth like some inhuman creature transformed before his very eyes. Byleth met his gaze, sure and defiant. He’d made his choice; it was too late to turn back now.

Jeritza’s eyes flicked to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because that’s what you do when you care for someone.” As if it was obvious. Perhaps it should have been, but Byleth was still learning what these feelings meant—what _all_ feelings meant. There was precious little time to worry about naming them, to lose a moment to inaction.

“But I am… You are…” Jeritza shook his head as if trying to clear it. “I am not who you think I am.”

“Then tell me,” Byleth said gently. It was all he’d ever wanted.

“I am… unlovable,” answered the man. “Hardly worth anyone’s time. I do not even have a heart to return affection, if it is given to me. I am an empty shell of a man—good for nothing but spilling blood.”

“That’s not true,” he said.

“It is.”

Yet Byleth can tell Jeritza wants to believe. He could see in his eyes the same feeling Byleth guarded deep inside himself—the desperate yearning to be wanted for himself and not what he can do or who he can kill. But he pushed anyway, turning away from Byleth with the intent to flee. Only Byleth’s hand around his wrist stoppe him; a soft grip, pleading, drawing him back to the green-haired professor.

“I will hurt you,” he said softly. “I will make you bleed.”

And Byleth found it endearing in Jeritza’s awkward way; pulled him close until Jeritza’s trembling body was pressing him into the wall. He gave him a smile and a gentle squeeze and tilted his head up in defiance.

“You can try.”


End file.
